


a strong man, broken

by shoutz



Series: human, like the rest of us [2]
Category: Castlevania (Cartoon), 悪魔城ドラキュラ | Castlevania Series
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood, Canon-Typical Violence, Death, I never know how to tag anything, M/M, Mild Gore, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Romance isn't obvious but I tagged their pairing for a reason, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-27
Updated: 2018-01-27
Packaged: 2019-03-09 12:57:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13481946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shoutz/pseuds/shoutz
Summary: Alucard is eloquent when it comes to the feelings of others, but his own? He’s a goner.“I’ve killed a hundred Belmonts before you, and I will kill many more once you’re gone.” Dracula raises a single clawed hand, and tugs Belmont’s hair to further expose his neck. “Do you have a god to put a last prayer to, Belmont?”Yeah,Alucard expects to hear, followed by a witty remark and a clever way to escape his situation. Surely. He’s done it once before and he can certainly do it again.Alucard wants to say something. Alucard wantsBelmontto say something. Alucard wants to be able to do something to stop this, but his father’s gaze pins him where he stands.“I suppose not, then.”





	a strong man, broken

It begins that night.

It’s fitting, really. Alucard shouldn’t be surprised that something so rare and wonderful as an open, honest moment with Trevor Belmont is followed by something like this.

He starts out running. He’s not sure to where or from what he runs, but as cliché as it is, he knows he can’t stop. He struggles to pull his thoughts into focus. Focus. _Focus, Adrian. Why are you running?_ He tries to think, but a sinister panic creeps its way into his stomach at the mere _question_ of his running. Of course, he has to run. Running is the only option. If he stops, he’ll be late, and if he’s late, then—

Late. He gets the distinct feeling that he’s out of time and he needs to get somewhere quickly. That’s a start, at least, a step towards understanding this; he’s running _to_ something, and it's time-sensitive. But what? He doesn’t know where he’s headed, not fully. The only thing navigating him through this bizarre landscape is a pit in the depths of his gut. If he had the time, perhaps he’d try to assess what’s so wrong, _why_ it all feels so wrong. Instead, he runs.

He dodges between street vendors and buildings, shoes pounding the unkempt cobblestones of this nameless town. With each step, his lungs fill with sand and his muscles turn to lead beneath his skin. Everything in Wallachia is determined to prevent Alucard from moving forward, as if the air itself is composed of hands grasping for purchase on his clothes, his hair, his skin. He tries desperately not to let it slow his advance.

The air grows choked with a disorienting fog the closer he gets. As if mirroring the atmosphere, the population of this town seems to grow choked within the worn streets, desperate to impede Alucard’s progress. An endless crowd of people stretches as far as he can see, filled with strangers old and young and anywhere between, all of whom stare at Alucard with dull, dead blue eyes that pierce to the bone. Alucard forces his way past them, frantic elbows posing a threat to all that stand in their way, but the people remain silent when he shoves them aside.

Past the crowd and the fog, he finally sees his destination. In an instant, the haze clears and the people dissipate with it, leaving only two souls remaining in the town’s square.

Adrian Tepes, and Trevor Belmont.

Trevor, to his merit, is fighting, as only a true-blooded Belmont could: viciously and without restraint. As always, Trevor fights, as if there’s anything else he could do in this situation. But he is losing that fight.

The gallows loom high, stretching towards the heavens and out of Alucard’s reach. Attached in the center hangs a hempen rope upon which Trevor is dangling, feet suspended well off the base. It looms tall, so incredibly tall, and Alucard feels himself shrink as he stands on the ground in front of it. All he can do is look up and _watch_.

Trevor starts out thrashing, a desperate attempt to knock something loose, to escape despite his hands being tied behind his back. Perhaps he’s fighting to preserve his life, or perhaps instinct powers his struggle. Either way, Alucard’s mouth goes dry at the sight. It’s the kind of desperation he’s only seen a handful of times, the kind he never wants to see again. The kind that gives him nightmares and haunts his waking hours with its lingering anguish. The kind his mother wore in her final moments.

Alucard’s mortal form betrays him. He wants to lunge forward and cut Belmont down but that feeling of heaviness returns in full force, holding him in place as Belmont’s life slips from his grasp.

As time passes, the violent attempts to escape devolve into squirms and writhes, like somehow he’ll shift the rope’s tension and fall free. Like a snake with its head cut off, wriggling away from the pain without the awareness to know it’s already dead. It’s a similarity so bitter and vile and honest that Alucard’s stomach flips once, twice, threatening to heave its contents forth.

 _Don’t just stand there, you fucking fool. Get him down. Save him. This isn’t right._ His body and soul are screaming to go forward, to try and help. He’ll curse himself until the end of time if Belmont dies here, if such a force on this earth is extinguished because Alucard is stunned into paralysis. There’s a disconnect that grows without abandon, until a river’s worth of water could freely flow in the space between his body and his mind. Alucard wishes he could blame his failure on it instead of his own weakness.

More time ticks past and the squirms devolve further to twitches. Belmont’s face is a pastel blue, and he’s long since given up on actively breaking free from the noose. Alucard continues watching until all movement ceases, Belmont’s body swaying limp in the breeze.

 _No. No, no no nononono. Not him._ The image of the swinging corpse embeds itself in Alucard’s brain, sinking its talons into the softest parts of him, making itself into a memory potent enough to burn.

And then, with a violent _bang_ , a throwing axe smacks heavily into the wood of the gallows, cutting the rope on impact. Trevor’s body falls, his corpse at gravity’s mercy, and there’s something so heart-wrenching about that moment in particular, about how fragile and vulnerable he looks. Alucard feels the urge to lunge forward and catch his corpse, as if that would soften the blow. As if that would bring him back to life. Instead, he watches and grapples with the realization that Trevor Belmont is dead. His chest tries and fails to hold back a broken sob.

Then, a moment later — a moment that feels like a day, three days, three years — Trevor’s lifeless body hits the gallows platform with a thud that jolts Alucard awake.

 _Awake. I’m… It was a dream._ Alucard sits upright in bed. His hair sticks to his neck and forehead with sweat, suffocating and claustrophobic. _Air. I need fresh air._

A glance around the room reveals that not much has changed since he fell asleep. The room still sits blanketed in darkness and the silence of early morning. The sun hasn’t yet broken the horizon, hazy with fog. Sypha and Trevor are undoubtedly still asleep, recovering from their efforts the night before. _Not dead. Still alive. It was a dream._

He stands and pulls his hair back, lifting it from his neck. The rush of morning air onto flushed skin helps, marginally, and it coaxes him further back into the world of the living. The living, a group which _includes_ Trevor Belmont. He doesn’t think he can remind himself of that enough times to fully shake the horror of that nightmare.

Alucard, after pulling on his coat, decides that a morning walk is what he needs to shake off the aftermath of the nightmare. Fresh air, peace and quiet, far away from the vision of Trevor Belmont hanging from a noose, struggling for his life before he loses it.

Fresh air, and maybe some strong ale.

In the end, he abandons the idea of drinking before sunrise and instead laps around the village in silence. Even if the morning’s darkness had been able to impede his vision, there isn’t much to be seen in the first place. And thus, nothing distracts Alucard’s mind from wandering back to that horrid nightmare.

It had all seemed so intensely real to Alucard’s subconscious. The frantic running, the fog, the gallows stretching towards the sky. As if the wood itself was trying to offer its victim to the gates of Heaven. A mocking shortcut, especially for the man whom the Church had so flippantly exiled. But somehow, _somehow_ , that isn’t what his mind latches onto. The most jarring part of it all, the part he won’t forget no matter how hard he tries, is how utterly powerless he was. He couldn’t bring his body to obey, to protect as he was wont to do by now. Belmont’s life was torn from its host and all Alucard could do was _watch_. In abject horror, he watched.

If the nightmare comes true, will his reaction be the same? Will he only be able to stand there and _watch?_

The possibility of the answer being ‘yes’ haunts Alucard into the rest of that day and far into the night.

When he finally falls into a fitful sleep, he’s greeted by the image of someone who hasn’t lurked in his dreams for what feels like years.

Clad in black and morose as ever, Dracula stands at the top of the stairs leading into the Church of Targoviste, of all places. Alucard would be toeing the line of annoyance if there hadn’t been one glaring detail to force his chest to fold in on itself.

His father holds Trevor in a vice grip by his hair, keeping him on his knees at the edge of the stairs. His head is held low, obscuring his face, but Alucard doesn’t know how he would feel if he could see it. How his chest would constrict itself even further. Would he even be able to breathe?

“Father—” he tries, but cuts himself off as Dracula forces Belmont’s head down further in warning. Trevor grunts but is otherwise silent. Uncharacteristically silent. _Terrifyingly_ silent. That his father was able to beat the fight out of Trevor Belmont is more harrowing than his father somehow getting hold of the hunter in the first place.

“You had your chance, Adrian.”

Alucard feels the urge to defend himself, but that disconnect between his mind and body reappears and leaves him stunned in place, speechless.

Dracula yanks Trevor up by his hair until he’s standing, face contorted in pain. Well, ‘pain’ is insufficient. Alucard doesn’t have the proper terminology for the look on Trevor’s face.

With seemingly infinite time suspended in a single moment, he sifts through various words, trying to find one that works as well as glory had. Broken is fitting but doesn’t do justice to just how much he’s been ruined. Despairing implies that he’s desperate, that he desires escape, which Alucard doesn’t see in his dull eyes. Instead there’s an apathy that cuts bone-deep, a man who has given up all hope. Tragic. Morose. Disconsolate. None of them sing like glory. They strike harsh, cruel tones that battle each other in discordance.

And Alucard…

Alucard feels his chest sink in on itself, collapsing like a rotted home, constricting any slim chance of breathing. Alucard feels all hope and optimism seep from his skin, feels it disappear like morning mist. The despondence in Trevor’s face breaks Alucard, and he barely has the shame to regret being so selfish and narcissistic. Alucard is broken, sure, but he’s not the one in the clutches of his enemy, looking death in the face and feeling absolutely _nothing._

“I’ve killed a hundred Belmonts before you, and I will kill many more once you’re gone.” Dracula raises a single clawed hand, and tugs Belmont’s hair to further expose his neck. “Do you have a god to put a last prayer to, Belmont?”

 _Yeah,_ Alucard expects to hear, followed by a witty remark and a clever way to escape his situation. Surely. He’s done it once before and he can certainly do it again.

_Please, Trevor._

But Trevor doesn’t say a word. Not a grunt, not an indignant insult. Nothing. It’s an apathy that paints itself upon Trevor’s face as clear as day. It’s an apathy that takes Alucard’s heart and tosses it into the ocean, cold and dark and suffocating.

Alucard wants to say something. Alucard wants _Belmont_ to say something. Alucard wants to be able to do something to stop this, but his father’s gaze pins him where he stands.

“I suppose not, then.”

And with that, Dracula swipes his claws across Trevor’s throat in one unforgiving slash. Four weeping red lines are left in its wake, and the noise that slips from between Trevor’s lips is a sound that isn’t meant to come from a human.

Blood sprays red from the wounds, painting the stairs with each new pulse. His body hangs limp in Dracula’s grasp, mouth gaping open and eyes unfocused. If Alucard’s stomach wasn’t already vacant, its contents would certainly join the blood littering the steps.

And then, with a flourish, Dracula drops Trevor’s body forward. He falls down, down, and with each _thud_ Alucard feels a new sort of desperation rise in his throat, waiting to escape in the form of a scream. But still, he can't bring his feet to move, can't make his body obey his mind. All he can do is fucking _watch_.

The body comes to a stop at the foot of the steps, directly in front of Alucard. Within seconds, seconds that feel like years, a gruesome pool of blood spreads beneath Belmont. The red soils the white fur on his cloak. Ruins his good tunic.

Impossibly, with the amount of blood Trevor has lost, he’s still breathing in shallow, hitched breaths. His body still twitches with the remains of his life, and his hand tries feebly to hold the rest of his blood inside of his body. It pulses between his fingers, steady and lethal.

And in that instant, Trevor looks at Alucard. Their eyes connect for the first time since this all began, and Alucard feels tears track down his cheeks that hadn’t been there before. He hadn’t even felt them build in the first place.

Ages pass. Trevor’s mouth moves, as if to speak, but no sound escapes his lips. Alucard wants to kneel down and try to help, to perhaps ease his passing, but movement is impossible. Again, his bones are rooted in place, and again, Alucard wants to scream at himself for his inability to do anything but watch as Trevor Belmont dies.

_Again._

Alucard can’t quite discern when Belmont’s eyes change into an unseeing, dead stare. A dull blue, so familiar and yet so _wrong,_ having lost all their keen incisiveness. He supposes it was around the time he stopped breathing. The life has leaked from his body, through his wounds and onto the steps of the Church. He’s dead, and when it becomes apparent to Alucard, a broken cry tumbles from his mouth as his muscles give out.

As his knees hit the cobblestones, Alucard wakes. The nightmare fades but its memory lingers, oppressive and haunting. Strands of hair stick to his damp cheeks. The thought that he had been crying in his sleep brings such shame that it almost distracts him from his nightmare.

Almost, but not quite.

That day, as they travel through the dense forests of Wallachia, Alucard can’t find it in himself to look Belmont in the eye.

Sypha notices this, of course, keen as ever. She assumes it’s hatred, which is understandable considering their past and the context she lacks. Instead of trying to explain, Alucard waves her off nonchalantly in the hopes that she’ll let it go, cognizant of how unconvincing he seems but wholly unprepared to give any lingering attention to his nightmares. She furrows her brows, concerned, but doesn’t push the issue as he walks ahead of the group to scout for danger.

That night, when they make camp, Alucard braces himself for the worst. He debates forgoing sleep completely, offering to take all the watch shifts until sunrise, but Sypha is adamant that he at least gets some sleep before they face the next day.

No amount of mental preparation could have saved him from the third night.

He begins the nightmare kneeling, head bowed low, studying the well-worn cobblestones beneath his feet. Blonde hair cascades over each shoulder, blinding his peripherals. A black cloak drapes across Alucard’s back and spreads across the ground like a flowing shadow, so reminiscent of his father’s that it makes him sick. The scar across his torso aches, for the first time since his rousing, and he clutches at it in the hopes that it’ll soothe the pain.

He doesn’t think to look up until then, and when he finally does, he regrets it immensely.

Nausea holds him in a vice grip at the sight of Trevor Belmont, the centerpiece of his nightmare once again.

Several loops of rope bind his limbs and torso to a wooden stake standing tall in the center of the barren town square. His head and shoulders hang forward, as much as they can with the ropes holding him firm. His hair obscures his face, again, and Alucard is somewhat grateful for it. The pike to which he’s tied stands tall, lodged amidst a pile of wood scraps and kindling. It bears a strong and bitter resemblance to his mother’s last living moments, and with that realization, Alucard’s heart plummets.

In a flash, the wood catches light, and the flame quickly shoots towards the clouds above, working their way in a slow creep towards the center. Towards Trevor.

 _They’re going to burn him alive._ The realization rolls over him slowly, taking its time to settle before Alucard’s brain churns itself into a full panic.

It comes paired with the realization that he isn’t fighting, isn’t struggling to break free with every well-honed muscle in his body as he ought to. Instead, the flames creep closer and closer to the body of a man who already knows he’s dead.

In that flash, the background shifts like sand, and Alucard’s attention is drawn from Trevor. The shapes that had once occupied the space behind Trevor morph into the blackened remains of a building. The charred skeleton of what was once a home. Few bits of stone still stand, outlining what should be a beautiful manor. Vines blooming with beautiful blue flowers have snaked their way up some of the remaining ruins. His mother would chide him for not remembering its genus and species, encourage him to sketch it and look it up in the compendium. A gnarled tree stretches upwards, twisted and bare of its leaves, nestled among other trees but seeming so alone nonetheless. Is — _was_ — it Trevor’s home? There’s no way to know; Alucard has never seen the Belmont ancestral keep. Regardless, the implication itself is enough to break his heart, enough to spring forth tears that cloud his vision. With the knowledge of exactly how much Belmont’s family still means to him, exactly how much his legacy still affects him… It’s more than he can take.

The flames crawl towards the center at a slow but insistent pace. With how close Alucard is, he should feel the heat, but instead his dreamscape is frigid.

 _Dreamscape. This is a dream._ The flames lick at Trevor’s ankles as Alucard recognizes this. He squirms in response, spurred to motion by heat that Alucard doesn’t feel. As Trevor jerks his head up, the panic on his face becomes clear. He struggles, thrashing as best as he can against the restraints. _Fighting. Finally._

And Alucard?

Alucard sees this struggle. Alucard watches Belmont’s will to live rear its head, powerful and ruthless. Alucard bears witness to Trevor’s raw and absolute strength as he fails to break free.

And then, Alucard stands.

After these insurmountable nightmares petrifying him every night, after the emotional turmoil that comes with seeing your one hope for survival die gruesomely over and over, he finally finds the strength to move. To do something other than watch. It breaks this cycle of terror that had so completely consumed him, even though this panic still clutches his heart in a vice grip and sends tears flowing freely down his cheeks.

By now, the flames have climbed to his knees and thighs, slowly consuming whatever they can to stay burning. Trevor yells, panicked, unable to break from the rope binding him but trying anyways. Because it’s the only thing he can do. Because he’s a Belmont, and they are bred to fight. Because he’s _Trevor_ Belmont, specifically. Inimitable, fierce as they come, and the most capable man in the room at any given time.

Alucard already knew this. He realized this three nights ago, as they fought the demons in that small village. His subconscious simply took its sweet time in catching up.

As triumphant as he feels in this simple motion, he realizes that merely standing up won’t save Trevor from turning to ash. But standing took what little strength he had, and the distance between them seems to grow infinite.

_Focus, Adrian._

_Focus._

_“Adrian!”_

The scream breaks through the din, the panicked noises Trevor had been making. His voice breaks on the word, raw fear coloring his tone, and it sends Alucard’s heart into a frenzy. Belmont had only used Alucard and _vampire_ to address him thus far; his true name bears a weight under which Alucard simply crumbles. He chokes on a sob. The fire has climbed to Trevor’s ribcage, consuming the majority of his flesh now, but that’s not what catches Alucard’s attention.

Trevor’s eyes plead with him, so clear even from a distance as he struggles against the ropes. The blue shines vivid as the flames dance around them. Not dull, not dead.

Miraculously, Alucard finds the strength to take a step forward.

Until the ground disappears from beneath him and he falls, as the scene dissolves like smoke.

Alucard jolts awake with a startled shout from his place on the ground. He sits upright, gasping for breath and frantically looking around. The embers of the campfire burn low, but still provide enough light by which to see. The forest is empty, save the three of them, and—

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Trevor’s voice startles him a second time. Alucard looks towards the sound and finds Belmont sitting propped up against a tree, cloak wrapped snug around his shoulders. White fur, unblemished with red. His sword lay in its sheath on the ground next to him, with the Vampire Killer coiled on the other side. _On watch. Right, of course_.

“Er, maybe that wasn’t the best figure of speech… Ghosts aren’t _that_ bad. Maybe a demon? Or something worse. ‘You look like you’ve seen Dracula.’”

Alucard takes a cursory look around. The sky is still dark with night. The tree branches sprawling above them cover any stars or moonlight that might want to illuminate their surroundings, but there doesn’t seem to be any immediate danger to the camp. Sypha is still fast asleep among her blankets and robes, a bit of a distance away from the fire they had stoked, but safe nonetheless.

Trevor is still watching him when Alucard finds the strength to spare a glance in his direction.

_What am I doing? I’m more than this. I’m better than this._

With that, he sits up out of his slouch and looks away. Without a word, he stands and shakes out the coat that had served as a blanket as he slept. The winter air is brisk on his still-clammy skin, and it pulls him further from the nightmare.

_Nightmare. It wasn’t real. Focus, Adrian, there’s no time for distractions._

“Too much?”

_Damn it._

“Good morning, Belmont,” he says through a sigh that puffs in the air like a cloud. It’s cold, but snow isn’t actively falling anymore. He pulls his coat on and retrieves his sword from its resting place against a nearby tree. Methodical, deliberate. His hands want to tremble but he won’t let them. His thoughts want to return to his dreams but he won’t let them. His eyes want to meet Belmont’s but he won’t let them.

“You, uh…” Belmont swallows hard, and it’s audible even from across their campfire. Alucard isn’t looking at him, but he can feel the hunter’s eyes divert their attention elsewhere in discomfort. “I’m not sure if you want me to say something or just forget about it.”

 _To the point, as ever._ Alucard looks at Trevor, finally. He tries not to wear his surprise so openly on his face, but Belmont’s features soften in a way that betrays him.

But now, there’s a choice to make.

His gut reaction is to forget, of course, but he recognizes the importance of coming to terms with these nightmares. If they’re going to be a recurring issue, it’s logically better to deal with them now than suffer sleep deprivation on top of the rest of the stress that comes with being Dracula’s son. Yet… Where does he even begin?

_Blunt honesty. He was forthright with me when it mattered. I owe him that much, at least._

“I keep dreaming about your death.”

Alucard sees surprise on Belmont’s face through the dark, and it’s not what he expected.

“That’s… disturbing.” He’s silent for a few moments, and averts his eyes to the embers still glowing weakly between them. “How did I die?”

“Which time?” he asks drily, sitting back down where he had slept.

A pause. “Any of them, I guess.”

Alucard takes a deep breath. “The first night, you were hanged by the Church.” It sounds too simple when he says it out loud. A mere hanging shouldn’t have shaken Alucard so badly. He wants to go into detail but there’s no detail to be had. It was a death, plain and simple.

Trevor Belmont’s death.

“That night after the battle at the village?”

He nods in response. There’s no point in lingering on its memory, so he doesn’t. “The second night…” He swallows thickly. “The second night, my father clawed out your throat on the steps of Targoviste’s cathedral.”

Trevor looks at him then, eyebrows bunched together with concern, but he remains silent.

“The dying itself wasn’t the worst of it, though. You had fought for your life and died the previous night; the shock was gone. Although the blood was new…” Alucard shakes his head. _Focus._ “It wasn’t your death that frightened me that time. You… He goaded you, he threw you around like a ragdoll, and…” His throat grows tight. The memory assaults him, dark and oppressive. “You were silent. You didn’t even try to fight him. You accepted your loss and you died with emptiness in your eyes, and that…” Dull blue taints his memories with despair, with death. Nausea consumes him. _“That_ was worse to watch than the dying itself.”

Alucard takes a moment, closes his eyes. The gruesome scene plays itself back in his head: the taunting, the blood, the fall down the steps, _thud, thud, thud_ … “I’ve been through a lot, Trevor.” He clutches at the scar across his torso, wincing at its memory, a lingering ache. “I’ve experienced many things. Nothing in this world hurts quite as much as seeing a strong man, broken.”

Trevor sucks in a breath at that, but stays quiet for a long moment. The forest around them mimics his silence, while Alucard wills the dream from his memory.

He’s unsuccessful, of course. The silence between them punctuates itself with flashbacks, images of an apathetic Trevor in the hands of the enemy. He wonders absently how many times he can see the same scene and still feel himself crumble beneath the weight.

“And… That wasn’t the last one?” Trevor asks, uncharacteristically timid. He seems to have some grasp of exactly how much these dreams have affected Alucard. Alucard, on the other hand, doesn’t know whether to be grateful or ashamed. They were just _dreams._ Figments of his imagination, not quite hallucinations. How could they have shaken him this badly? How could he let them have so much control?

It’s a stupid question. He knows exactly how.

He just won’t let himself admit it. Not yet.

“No, there was one other, last night. You…” Alucard looks up at Trevor. His face shows a variety of emotions, with a hesitant concern above all. It’s almost a relief; at least it’s not a mocking glare. He has some semblance of an idea how serious Alucard is about these dreams and their effect. “Where were you when they killed Dracula’s wife?” The question comes out of his mouth sour, so he tries to amend it, “My mother, I mean.”

Trevor’s expression grows slightly curious. “Not sure. Probably drinking somewhere… Enisara?” He pauses, thoughtful. “Certainly not Targoviste. Not unless I wanted a lynching—” Trevor cuts himself off again, wincing. “Sorry.”

Alucard waves a hand dismissively. “The last dream took place there.” He pauses, carefully piecing together his next words. “My mother was burned alive at the stake. And, in that nightmare, you were as well. But…” He debates what details to omit. _Blunt honesty_ , he reminds himself.

“In the previous dreams, I was paralyzed. The thought of something _somehow_ besting you… I couldn’t move, I couldn’t help. That night, however, I was able to _do_ something. Or try, anyway. That made the difference.” A thousand thoughts run laps around his brain, trying to make sense of Alucard’s turbulent feelings. “The ground disappeared from under my feet and I woke up before I could do anything other than take a step forward, but… I wasn’t powerless.” He leaves out the use of his birth name spurring him forth. Blunt honesty, sure, but Alucard can leave some details to his own discretion.

Alucard waits patiently for Trevor to speak again. Several moments pass before he does, and when his voice cuts through the cold, its tone surprises him.

“Something _besting_ me?” He almost sounds offended. “Your faith in my ability is so encouraging. I’m glad you think so fucking highly of me.” Irritation paints the sarcasm in his tone with a heavy resentment. Then he narrows his gaze on Alucard, suddenly serious. “I could hold my own against you and I can hold my own against your father.”

Alucard gapes, stunned by the look on Trevor’s face. “That’s…” He shakes his head, trying to parse Belmont’s response. “That’s not not the point, I’m just… You were dying and I couldn’t do anything.” His voice is small as he speaks, barely carrying across the distance between them.

“So my struggle is about you now, is it? I’m dying over and over again and you‘re worried because _you’re_ scared?” Alucard winces. “Well tough shit. Not all of us can be immortal.” His eyes cut through to the bone. His tone is salt in the wound. It takes every ounce of Alucard’s patience not to rise to the bait.

“They’re my dreams, Belmont! And— I’m not immortal, don’t be daft.” Alucard feels a headache pricking at his temples as agitation creeps up his spine. “That’s not the point. I don’t know what to do.” Alucard fights the urge to burst. The energy is tense between them, but when Alucard pauses to gather his thoughts and calm his mind, Belmont waits silently for him to speak. He avoids Alucard’s eyes, arms crossed over his ribcage.

“You were honest with me when it mattered, so I will be honest with you: I’m scared. I’m fucking terrified.” Trevor looks up at him then, blue eyes turned a dull gray in the darkness of morning. They don’t cut anymore, but Alucard doesn’t quite know what to make of his expression.

“I’m scared we’ll lose you and our hope will be demolished in one fell swoop. I’m afraid to lose you because you’re our best chance at saving this world, this _damned_ world my mother wanted so badly to protect. I’m afraid to lose you because you’re a good person and there aren’t enough of those left in the world. And…” _Blunt honesty._ “I’m afraid we’ll lose you and it’ll be my fault because I didn’t even try to stop it. Because I _couldn’t_ even try to stop it.”

Alucard looks down at his knees, hands carding through his hair to get it out of his face. “I tried. I knew I should, but my body just wouldn’t obey. Frozen in fear. I’ve never… I’ve never felt such debilitating dread and I don’t want to experience it again. The loss…” He pauses, considering. His face contorts itself into a deep, disturbed frown. “It would be insurmountable, Trevor.”

Dawn begins its slow break over the horizon, bringing the smallest bit of light to the forest around them.

“I’ve already lost the one thing— the one person who I thought embodied the only good in this world. When she was killed, darkness swallowed Wallachia, a darkness which _you_ staved off. Forgive me for not wanting to lose what little hope I have left.”

The sarcasm surprises Alucard as it comes out of his mouth. Trevor softens at his own defense mechanism used against him.

“I’m not our only hope, you know.” The words give Alucard pause, but Trevor’s gaze remains soft, clinging to him as the sun begins ushering forth a new day. “In fact I’m probably the least capable of the three of us. Sypha's magic is incredible, and you’re a fucking monster with that sword.”

He doesn’t think to regret his choice of words until a moment later.

“Not like that— I mean… That came out wrong. I just—” Belmont almost looks distressed as he grapples with the proper words. “In that fight, you could have killed me," he says, matter-of-fact. He had been defensive when he claimed the opposite just moments before.

Alucard rolls his eyes. “You could have just as easily killed me.”

“No, that’s— it was underhanded and sluggish. I got lucky and you weren’t actually trying to kill me. If you hadn’t taken your time at the end of that fight, if you hadn't held back, you could have gutted me before I had the chance to think, much less draw my dagger.” He pauses and lets the words sink in. And sink in, they do. Alucard shifts uncomfortably.

“And when the time comes, my father will be just as ruthless as I was not, and you will die.”

“And that won’t be the end.” The emotion in Trevor’s voice leaves Alucard breathless. It’s raw and sincere and he doesn’t know what to do with it. “‘It’s not the dying that frightens us.’ Right? This— this job, this task, whatever you want to call this, death is an inescapable part of it. The likelihood of all three of us surviving to see the end of this is slim to none.” Alucard frowns, fighting the urge to look away. “But just because I’m content with that doesn’t mean I’m suicidal.”

Trevor’s words stun Alucard. That seems to be the norm these days.

His first instinct is to defend himself, _that’s not what I’m afraid of,_ but that’d be a lie. Trevor’s will to live is often so vicious it paints itself as reckless, uncaring. But at its core, that’s what it is: a will to live. It would take the combined efforts of ten Draculas to snuff that flame. How could he have doubted it in the first place? That aspect of him is clear as day. Alucard can see it through the glint in Trevor’s eye, can see it through all the fights they’ve had so far and all the fights to come, can see it embedded in the very essence of being Trevor Belmont, the last son of the House of Belmont.

_Is that what I fear most? Is it truly that simple?_

“I admire the way you fight, Trevor. It’s incredible and inspiring and gives me hope that I haven’t felt in years.” Alucard’s gaze is unwavering, sincere. Trevor almost seems uncomfortable beneath it. “I could not bear to lose that aspect of you.”

Then he smirks, sharp as the sword at his hip, with a hint of determination that makes Alucard’s chest feel light. “You won’t.”

_Of course it's that simple._

Alucard sighs, feeling his face go soft. “I know.”

Trevor doesn't miss a beat. “Then believe me.”

Alucard smiles, taken off-guard at his own words used against him. He feels light, almost giddy with the anxiety of the past few days finally behind him.

Soft sunlight crests the horizon between the trees. A few rays fight their way through the forest, painting the dark foliage in a brisk glow. The fire between them has long since died, the final embers succumbing to the cold. In the distance, the lump of robes and furs concealing Sypha begins to stir.

Trevor stands, stretching his arms over his head. He kicks some dirt on top of the ashes of their dead campfire for good measure, then takes off his cloak and shakes some of the lingering dust from it. Painfully normal. As if Alucard hadn’t just laid his worst fears in front of him, raw and vulnerable.

Alucard stands up as well, beating the dust and dirt from the end of his coat. He looks over at Trevor, a task that had been so impossible the day before. Now, it’s as natural as breathing. He straightens his posture, so easy now with the weight of his fears off his shoulders.

Sypha collects her belongings and makes her way over to the others, ready to set off. Alucard looks between his companions as he straps his sword to his hip.

“Shall we?”

Sypha smiles. “Off to Severin. I’m ready for a proper bed and proper food in a proper inn.”

Trevor nods once, smirking, and they begin their trek towards the sunrise.

**Author's Note:**

> So I wasn’t planning on continuing any of the story from Glory, but inspiration hit and here we are with a part two. Honestly have no idea how this ended up being 6k. I just missed these two so much that I had to continue with something. I feel bad for being so whump-y and depressing, but y’know. The heart wants what the heart wants, even if it wants garbage. This is a Big mess and mostly written out of stress and to avoid other things in my life, but that's just how that goes I think.
> 
> Talk to me about your feelings on [tumblr](http://shoutzwastaken.tumblr.com) or [twitter](http://twitter.com/shoutzwastaken)


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